


Odds Are

by RNandSniper



Series: Intentionally Misfiled Reports [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Casinos, F/M, Femme Fatale, Gambling, Solo swagger, Team protective/comforting, drugged Illya, hurt solo, injured Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RNandSniper/pseuds/RNandSniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After wrapping up a mission in Monaco, Solo entertains his vices, which do not go unnoticed or unpunished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. House of the Rising Sun

Napoleon Solo stood at the backgammon table, feeling the chill of the ivory dice in his hand. Most of the casino’s eyes were upon him, those that had not strayed to the lovely companion he attracted over the course of a few nights. Juliana had been on staff two nights prior, but agreed to meet him again when she was off duty. She had unfortunately been too tired to accompany him back to his hotel that first night, but gave him a saucy wink that promised it would be worth the wait. Her long red hair was twisted artfully to drape over her swan neck, and small emeralds dangled from her ears to match the gown wrapped around her body. Dark red lipstick matched her hair, and dark eyes hinted at the night’s future activities. One of her perfectly manicured hands rested on his right shoulder, and her left stroked up and down his side. 

Subtly Solo checked to ensure he still had his wallet. Such intimate attentions were an easy way to distract a mark. He would know, having perfected the moves himself. He prided himself on never having returned to Victoria Vinciguerra the ring he removed from her finger. She had been sharp, but she hadn’t noticed the results of that light-fingered action. It was understandable to be distracted during a third orgasm. Even she had lost some of her calculating manner after time spent in his nude company, but it had renewed with a vigor the next day. 

A simple tournament had run in the casino that weekend, allowing Solo to entertain his own vices. In this final game of backgammon, Solo knew he had one move left to make, and he could win the prize game of the night. His latest opponent had been worthy, but a few choice remarks had him more focused on the attentions of his blonde mistress than the game. While his opponent’s woman had smiled at a few other men, she had beamed at almost anything that caught her eye. She was a bit vacant for Solo’s taste, and was likely drunk, happy with the obviously faux gems on the long necklace that decorated her voluptuous décolletage. Dice rolls were not enough to save his opponent from the distraction the woman on his right provided. The blonde’s attitude had grown haughty, and her eyes roved the room more purposefully after Solo’s opponent had made a few condescending remarks about her flirtations. Solo simply viewed it that he was doing the woman a service. If her benefactor was so easily manipulated to envy, she could likely do better. For all her jewellery and clothing being fake and off the rack, she wore it well. Before the game ended, she would storm off, if not soon after. 

Solo reached up to squeeze Juliana’s hand, “For luck,” he whispered in her ear, and she obliged him with a coquettish laugh. Solo tossed the dice, and was happy to see the number he needed. He cleared his last piece off the board. “And that’s the game.” 

The look in his opponent’s eyes was relief, he was now free to leave, and take his woman with him. Their argument had drawn eyes, and not a few men seeking her out. It was barbaric, but the mere hint of indecency drew opportunistic men like sharks to chum. Solo felt not a bit guilty for arranging such a wonderful diversion. It made his own work so much simpler. 

Solo caught the eyes of the tuxedo-clad worker running the table and winked. “When shall I collect my winnings?” He felt the old familiar buzz of knowing what a large payout he would receive. While his wages covered most of the amenities for living, he had a taste for the finer things. Truffles in his risotto, the newest art on his walls, a new couture dress for Gaby, and the latest gun on his hip. And a quiet kickback to his aging mother, who still believed her son to be a world class art dealer. The CIA had suppressed evidence of his arrest and jail time from public record, which had allowed Solo to maintain the fiction to his relatives. 

“Enjoy yourself a little longer. I will ensure the bar knows your drinks are on me tonight. Well played, Mr. Demerais.” The man bowed curtly, heading to the back corner offices of the casino. Solo watched him leave and then turned to the beautiful redhead on his arm. 

“What shall we have?” Solo asked, leading Juliana to an empty table. He pulled out her seat, and let his fingers linger on the bare skin on her back. “Something sweet?” He pulled his hand up to back of her neck and rubbed his thumb against her pulse point, “Or something stronger?” 

“You’re being wicked, Mr. Demerais,” she said, pupils dark. “Something stronger will do.” Solo kept the smile off his face, he knowing he had found a fiery one. “My friend saw you with another woman last night. A short brunette in red. You never left her side.” Her green eyes still sparkled good naturedly, but Solo was too good an agent to not see the trap being set. 

“A friend. She came to Monte Carlo with her fiancé but he was ill, and I couldn’t leave her cooped up all night.” Solo signalled the bartender. 

“Good answer. My friends also said that you did not lay one ungentlemanly hand on her all night, for all she was dressed to please the eye.” She grabbed Solo’s hand under the small table and guided it to her knee. 

“I only have eyes for you tonight,” Solo answered. 

“Better have more than eyes, Mr. Demerais.” The redheaded vixen replied, and pulled his hand up higher. 

Solo smiled at her and reclaimed his hand. “Our drinks are here.”

“I will see if there is a room upstairs,” she purred into his ear. 

“I’m booked across the street.” Solo countered. “It’s not much of a walk.”

“This will be nicer, and it will be free. The housekeeper owes me a favour or two.” She sipped her drink and stood, showcasing her long legs. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t take too long.” He said catching her eye meaningfully. She bit into her deep red lip, and turned to walk away, heading towards the lobby. Solo intently watched her leave. 

Two men walked up to his table and blocked Solo’s view. He frowned. “What can I do for you?” Solo asked, allowing a bit of irritation to seep into his tone. 

“You can come with us, now.” The lead grunt spoke up, a thick French accent covering his words. 

Solo kept a glare off his face. “Concerning?” 

“Your winnings, Mr. Demerais.” The second man said his bearing more brutish, his enunciation no better. 

“Of course. I plan to cash out tonight. That won’t be a problem, I assume? I leave Monaco tomorrow.” Solo told them, watching their faces. It was odd that the casino would not send more congenial faces to entertain someone with fresh money, which could easily be reinvested into the casino. Solo expected men more like Juliana’s coworkers than these two. 

“There should be no problem with you leaving tomorrow.” The second man answered. And that was neither entreating him to stay, nor answering his question. 

“Excellent. Of course it will be in American currency, correct?” Solo prodded. He glanced around where he was being shepherded. It was not the grandly placed offices for the senior management, or the front desk. He was headed towards the back of the casino floor. A few men on the floor saw him and turned away abruptly. A bit disconcerting, but he had made no real enemies the last few nights, had tipped generously, and despite deeper impulses kept his quick fingers to himself. That was not why he was here, and he had played smart enough and made enough on side bets for the individual backgammon matches to splurge a bit. No one had left his presence feeling cheated. Solo took pride in his ability to take others’ money, and have them content to hand it over. 

“You’ll get what you deserve.” The first men said and he felt the tickle of the hair on his neck standing up. He gently tapped his side, and swallowed deeply when his realized his gun was missing. Green eyes mocked him in his mind, but it could have been Juliana or anyone one else who had brushed against him in the push of the casino floor. It was a crowded place, and the press around an active table would have hidden many different people’s fingers reaching. 

“How will the money be presented? I would hate to be robbed on my way back to my hotel. Quite a few others know I won the tournament.” Solo asked for the devil was in the details. If this was the situation he was fearing it might be, he would rather have the men tip their hands before he walked into a situation he could not talk himself out of. For once Solo had kept to the letter of the law, and was innocent of nothing more than being lucky. “Because if you hand me a sack with a green dollar sign, it would be rather obvious.” Solo said, and watched the two men become more irritated. Still they shouted no accusation, or offered any real clue as to their motivation. That was the problem with using brainless louts in business. It was impossible to get a read on empty heads. 

The three stepped through a door, allowing Solo to enter first. In the small room, five other men, including one of the casino’s partners, a well-dressed man Solo recognised from the beginning of the tournament, stood with no cash prize in sight.

The man’s face purpled and the veins on his balding temple bulged. “Mr. Demerais, or whatever your name is,” the partner spat. “You may play your games in other countries, but you will not profit from them here.” 

Solo frowned. “Pardon me?” It was unlikely that they knew who he truly was, the thief, or the UNCLE agent. 

“We run a fair casino here, and you managed to fraud your way through the games. You were seen exchanging dice before you threw on several occasions, I am told by reputable witnesses. And you were seen last night flashing card tricks at your brown haired girlfriend. Perhaps that German whore was impressed, but we are not. All your winnings tonight are forfeit, and we will suggest you not enter here again.” His pot belly heaved with seething fury, and his breath came short as he finished his tirade. 

“My companion last night was a lady, and I’ll ask for your apology only once.” Solo said in a low even but deadly serious tone as the man passed his shoulder. It was a good thing that the Red Peril was not in this company, or apparently listening, because the resulting mess would have been graphic. Solo would wait for an apology, and if not, then decide on the consequences. 

The partner froze, a livid look flashing over his face. “You sir, are in a position to demand nothing.” He was clearly shocked that Solo had dared to speak back to him, but being in a small room with one self-important man and six thugs was not anywhere near the most humbling experience Solo had in his life. It did not even rank. It was obvious what this room was for, intimidation, and physical recompense of the casino’s profits when they believed they were being stolen. 

Solo saw that each of the other men’s fists were clenched, with billy clubs in two of the men’s hands. No knives or guns. All of the men’s suits were buttoned, so even if they were properly armed, it would be a long fumble for any of them to draw firearms. He noticed a few old black stains in the carpet. Since they intended to ‘teach him manners’ regardless of his sins, imagined or not, he saw no reason not to initiate the exchange. 

Solo threw the punch Illya had taught him, extending his first two fingers’ knuckles, and slammed his arm forwards into what the Russian called a leopard’s paw punch. It struck the casino partner in the throat, and he backed away choking. 

Solo pushed the partner into the two that had led him into the room, and turned to catch another man by the shoulders, and toss him to the floor over his hip. Solo dodged another strike, pulling that man in front of him by the wrist, and punched hard upwards, snapping the man’s head back. He canted away from the falling body, and stepped on the arm of the man down behind him. His stance wobbled, but he was saved from falling when another thug grabbed his suit and pressed him into the wall. Solo regretted not having had time to get it cut for ease of motion as he threw up his arm to wiggle out of the new jacket, and heard it tore. 

“That was an Anthony Sinclair,” he spat, and could not dodge a fist landing in his gut as he dropped himself down and out of the grip of the fabric. The whisky he had just drunk spewed from his mouth, as the man that had held him stepped back in disgust. Solo tried to straighten, and settled for barrelling his opponent to the floor, putting in a couple of hard blows to his head. 

Leaving his opponent moaning on the floor, he swung to face two more men trying to yank Solo back by the shoulders and pin him to the wall. He sidestepped one billy club, but the next swing struck him across the inside of the wrist, as he tried to deflect the blow, and his hand sprung open, paralysed. The first man’s weapon caught Solo in the ribs and he tried to press forward, to get inside the man’s reach, and reduce the power of the blows. His breath huffed out in a rush, even as he grunted at the pain in his hand. This fight was bad. There was little room to maneuver, and nowhere to run. The heavily barred door that likely led to the alley would not give enough for him to escape through. If he could have held on to his own gun, this fight would have been over by now. 

When Solo succeeded in pressing the advantage against one of the men, barring his arm against the man’s neck, and pressing him to the wall, Solo left his back open. Solo managed to twist one of the clubs out of the man’s hand with a fast flash of Solo’s fingers and clocked him with his dead hand across the jaw, as hard he could manage. 

The world sparked white as Solo felt something crash into the back of his head. Solo staggered forward over the stunned man. He kept hold of the weapon in his hand, even as he felt another blow across his neck tear his skin, and a fist slammed into his lower back. Pain blinded him, and a foot pushed him to his knees. 

Solo rolled into another man hard. The man caught him in a wrestling grip, and locked his arm behind his head. A few more blows rained into his face and stomach. Solo sagged, knowing the man would have to drop him or hold up the dead weight. Thinking he was unconscious, the man let Solo go and he acted quickly, straightening his knees and twisting, snapping the billy club into the back of the thug’s head and dropping him like a stone. 

Solo squinted through the eye that was not blistering in pain. Into the barrel of a gun. Solo stilled, his breathing hard. The casino partner had one hand to his throat, and was hunched over. His grip shook on the weapon, and it wove back and forth with an amateur’s unsteady grip. But in the small space, the gun still spent enough time pointed at Solo that he was nervous. Maybe he should start having his vests lined with the material from flak jackets. 

“You should have just taken the beating,” the lead thug said. “Would have been quicker.” And maybe it would have been, but it was not in Solo’s nature to submit to punishment, let alone for crimes he hadn’t actually committed. 

With the gun still more or less trained on him, a thug wrapped his thick fingers around Solo’s neck. Two more men still able to stand took him by the arms. He took pleasure in seeing the three remaining men on the ground, one moving slowly, two not. The two men that held him looked a little worse for wear themselves, but seemed determined to recoup their lost dignity. While Solo could easily break their hold, due to his time spent training with Illya, he would not be able to avoid a gunshot. 

“So you plan to kill me.” Solo said flatly. “I don’t have any of your money.” 

“Greedy American.” The grunt used grip around Solo’s neck to slam his head against the wall. A streak of red was left from the impact. “We were told to stop putting bodies in the alley. And you gave us some entertainment.” He slammed Solo’s head again, and started to squeeze. Fireworks lit off behind Solo’s eyes as he tried to shake the men off his shoulders. “So you’ll wake up. Probably.” 

MFU

Gaby idly flipped through the book she was pretending to read. She’d been thrilled to find the books she had access to outside of East Berlin were much more diverse in selection than the carefully screened propaganda pieces. The lack of inventive literature had almost driven her love of reading from her. This book, written by a British author, with elves, talking trees, and dwarves, was fantastical but charming. She refused to let Solo see the cover when she’d bought it, and was wondering how she would talk Illya into reading it so she had someone to talk to about it. He preferred to read for pleasure in Russian, if he did at all. Gaby believed he needed to diversify his tastes from Tolstoy. If nothing else, she could insinuate he needed practice with his English, and mend his wounded pride some other way. 

Gaby kept the radio off as she sat curled up on the davenport at the foot of the bed. While she preferred the background noise, missing the cacophony of the auto shop, the man that dozed on the bed found most music utterly distracting. Illya admitted to her he did not like music much, as it gave him no pleasure to hear it, and rang too loudly in his ears. The lights were dim other than a lamp Solo had moved to shine directly on her book. She had pulled all the pillows out of her own room, and had herself propped up on the pile in what Solo called ‘the Princess and the Pea’. 

The mission in Monte Carlo had concluded in success, but like all of their work it was dangerous. On the mission they had not blown their covers by neatly arresting everyone, aside from a few confirmed dead. Waverly had stopped in to congratulate them, and left saying he was piecing together a few leads, but had nothing solid yet to send them on. In the meantime they were allowed to have some leisure. Illya had wanted to fly back to New York immediately, and Gaby and Solo had talked him around to remaining for a few days to see the sights. 

Gaby wondered what had happened to her grand plans of touring. Life in restrictive East Germany had made her crave new experiences and adventure, something Solo would have been happy to take her up on, provided he had his evenings in the casino or his rooms to himself. However, Gaby had found she did not stray far from the hotel rooms they rented. Once she had accompanied him to the grand casino, since Solo had bought her a new dress to wear, and she felt obligated to come down on his arm. While she had enjoyed the evening and her partner’s gregarious nature, she could not forget that she wished it was Illya’s hand on her elbow. 

Solo traversed the casino with a hidden laceration across his back, carefully bandaged to not ruin the Anthony Sinclair suit he bought with his winnings. The Chanel dress he purchased for Gaby had long gloves to match, covering a deep bruise. Illya was recovering more quietly; cracked ribs and bruised knees from a spectacular car crash in an intentional maneuver to put their fleeing suspect into the ditch had killed their quarry. Illya had walked away, but not far. Solo had been openly critical of the maneuver that had eliminated their one chance at finding a link the funds for the latest plot, but Gaby suspected his displeasure was also tinged with the concern they both felt watching the two cars roll down the steep slope at over fifty miles per hour. Illya had grown tired of the enemy agent shooting at them in pursuit, and put an end to the chase. 

Gaby realized she felt comfortable here sitting in the chair, with her feet on the expensive coffee table, listening to Illya’s quiet breathing, while he lay in bed. She flipped the page in her book, and heard sheets rustle behind her head. 

“Why are you still here? Go have fun with Solo, keep him out of trouble.” Gaby glanced over her shoulder and tried to keep the smile off her face, Illya’s hair was mussed, and though he looked disapprovingly at her, the effect was spoiled by the fact he wore a half unbuttoned pajama top, and had lines from the pillow etched into his face. The Russian had slept poorly the night before, unable to get comfortable and breathe properly with the pain, so Solo had mixed his drink that afternoon. 

The previous evening Gaby had stopped by Illya’s room pleasantly intoxicated, still in the glamourous dress and makeup she hoped to show off. While she did half-hope that her entrance to his room would wake him to appreciate her appearance, she was frustrated to find Illya sitting in chair staring vacantly at the wall. She meant only to check on him, and to refill the water at his bedside; maybe teasing him a little with Solo’s fine taste. That evening Solo had been a perfect host, teaching her a few games, and lending her some of his winnings to squander. His eyes occasionally strayed around the room, but he remained with her, and to her annoyance brotherly discouraged any other company. Gaby did not wish to wander from this new relationship with Illya, but it harmed nothing to appreciate art. 

This afternoon, Illya realised his drink was tainted the minute he took a sip of his water, but Gaby tipped the bottom of the glass up, forcing him to either drink or swim in it. It wasn’t a high dose, Solo explained, just enough for it to be easier to move and draw a full breath. Illya had chosen to keep drinking, and Gaby knew it was a measure of the trust they had built up. If Solo had spiked the Russian’s drink in Rome or Istanbul, there would have been blood drawn, and certainly not Illya’s. Solo had stayed to help steady Illya from the armchair to the bed, and disappeared with a wink to Gaby soon afterwards. Gaby who had settled in to keep watch over Illya, a pistol within reach to soothe his unspoken paranoia, now observed him with hidden amusement as he woke from his seven-hour nap. 

“I’m sure Solo is perfectly capable of keeping himself in exactly as much trouble as he wishes to be in. I was with him all last night. I suspect he would like more… involved company this evening.” Gaby tried to keep the wistfulness out of her voice. 

Illya had recently found enough courage to admit his feelings for her, and was admirably trying to break out of his self-imposed isolation for her sake. He’d started to learn to dance, and put up with her whims with good humour. She suspected he’d even asked Solo for lessons, because his skill level had improved dramatically between missions. They had branched out from teaching her only the practical basics of Russian to words for private conversations, or affection. He was becoming more physically demonstrative, but they had yet to do anything but kiss or embrace. Illya was the only man she’d ever heard of being hesitant in the bedroom, and wished he would have a little more initiative. It certainly was not for religious reasons, or moral ones. 

Illya grumbled, and shifted his legs off the bed. He stood gingerly, and stiffly walked across the suite to the bathroom. “The Cowboy is entirely too liberal with the company he keeps.” Gaby smirked, and hid it behind a cough.

She stretched, and moved to fluff up Illya’s linens, and pull back his covers. “You slept so well, I should measure out another dose, and you’ll get some rest tonight too!” she called through the closed bathroom door. 

“No. Is not good idea.” Illya said firmly.

“We could play chess first, or you could read. Why don’t you want to get some real rest?” Gaby tried to present a rational argument, frustrated with Illya’s attitude. She understood his hesitancy to use anything habit forming, but it was a little ridiculous when he could not lie down to sleep because it was too painful to breathe. 

“Slept whole evening again. I am fine to doze in chair tonight. If Solo is out there getting, as the Americans put it, ‘wasted’, gambling and whoring, one of us should remain alert.” Illya answered, shaking water off his hands.

“One of us.” Gaby repeated flatly. 

“Yes, even off mission it is possible to run into trouble… Oh.” Illya stopped, and curled one arm around his chest. “You are angry because I did not include you in my assessment.” 

“I’m done playing mother for the night.” She turned to go, her cheeks coloring, and blinking fiercely. Over the last few missions, she had proved herself to be more than damsel, more than the driver, or the pretty face. She still had bad nights where she could not get back to sleep seeing the faces of men she had killed. On those nights, she slipped into Illya’s room and he played chess with himself, and she watched him, sometimes talking, until he woke her up with coffee in the morning. Illya and Solo had better appreciate that she was equally willing to protect them. 

“Gaby,” Illya began, “Thank you for today. It was nice to have you sit with me.” He was so sincere, and did not stammer out a lie to defend his position, meaning he still believed he was right, but did not want to hurt her feelings more with justification. He was being a chauvinist, but he was chivalrous about it. 

“Good night, Illya,” Gaby turned around to go grab her book, but Illya had crossed the room silently and had it, holding it out to her. She took it from him, and he caught her wrist gently. 

“I am tired, and not used to watching out for more than myself, or caring for anyone.” Illya said and pulled her closer. “I trust you watch out for us, but I’d rather be able to watch for myself.” He rested his head on top of hers. She suspected he was too sore to bend to kiss her. Not that would be enough recompense. 

“Illya, nothing is going to happen. Please take the medicine the doctor left you. Sleep. Who knows how long we have before Waverly finds something else amiss he can’t trust with a political agency.” It was beginning to seem odd how frighteningly frequently men who had anarchist views and the scientists to illustrate their desires were being funded and granted their dreams. UNCLE had been successful in intercepting the new technologies in all the cases they knew about, but what scared them is what was slipping through the cracks. They had not found any solid links to agency funding, or any other Vinciguerra allies. 

Gaby heard the beginning of his hummed response, interrupted by there was a knock. Gaby regretfully pulled away, and turned to get the door. “Wait, Gaby. We are not expecting anyone, some caution is due.” She stepped back rolling her eyes, and let the man who had more bruises than clear skin on his legs and cracked ribs open the door himself. 

Solo nearly fell in on top of them. Illya caught the American and stumbled back, and Gaby flew around them, and under Solo’s arm to steady him, so Illya could catch himself on the liquor cabinet. The cupboard rocked dangerously, and Gaby heard the bottles inside clink together, but she had her arms full with Solo who was trying to keep his feet. Illya found his balance and took Solo’s other arm guiding him to sit in Gaby’s pillow nest. She flipped on the room’s lights, she gasped when she took in his appearance. 

Solo sat slumped against the cushions in only the formerly crisp white shirt, now ripped, stained with a variety of liquids in red, crimson, and yellow. His trousers were muddy and torn, and his shoes were missing. He let his head drop back revealing red marks on his throat sure to bruise by night, and the swelling lips tipped up as the non-blackened opened to peer at them. “Sorry to barge in like this,” his normally smooth voice croaked, “But if one of you could be so kind as to pour me a drink.” His breath smelled of strongly of alcohol already, Gaby took in everything and wondered what was still unseen. 

“Looks like you need to drink it through a straw.” Illya rumbled quietly as Gaby watched his finger tap on his leg. Illya other hand was already moving to comb through the American’s hair and he pulled back bloody fingertips. He tilted Solo’s chin down. “Just a scrape,” Illya murmured. “Who am I having words with tonight?” The Russian said accent thick, bristling with an unmistakable menace. 

Solo looked up slowly to his partner’s face and took the glass from Gaby. He took a small sip and spoke, his voice not improved. “The casino was informed that I was improving the outcomes of my dice.” 

Gaby sighed in displeasure. “Solo, I can’t believe you were cheating.” While she had seen bits of his sleight of hand, practiced enough for a magic act, he had been sparing in using it. On their evening together the night before, she had seen nothing irregular in his play. 

“I can believe he was cheating, but not that he was so easily caught.” Illya answered, his finger still tapping, as he furrowed his brow. “There is more to this story?” 

“For the record, I did not need to use any sleight of hand to win the backgammon tournament. My ability has more to do with strategy than just dice rolls,” Solo said indignantly “And while it is possible someone begrudged me their winnings, no one was broken by losing the games. My suit, now ruined, was hardly the best there.” 

“So there was another motive to discredit you, and have you beaten. The casino thugs?” Illya limped to the bathroom and came back with a wet washcloth and dry towel that he handed to Solo. “Find Solo a shirt of mine to wear, please.”

“They asked me to come with them. I assumed at first it was to collect the final cash prize.” Solo said, looking a bit sheepish. “Read that situation poorly, but those men are always surly.” 

“You are arrogant, Cowboy, this and that non-existent safe alarm in Rome, must always be alert.” Illya remonstrated, and wiped away mud and gore from Solo’s neck. 

Gaby felt a little sick as Illya helped Solo out of the ruined clothing. More abrasions and contusions were evident across his back and chest, along with what appeared to be a boot print. If the current mission had not gone so well, along with the prior trip to Scotland, and another to Mexico, she would think she worked with the two most injury-prone spies in the business. She did not relish reporting Waverly in the morning. She found one of the few dress shirts Illya had brought. It would not be too big on Solo only long, and both men were very well muscled. 

“If you don’t believe it was about money, then it must have been about you.” Gaby surmised. “Did you seduce the wrong woman and offend another?”

Solo paused to think, and after a few moments, “A gentleman does not kiss and tell.” Illya looked pointedly at him. And Gaby did not smile. Solo’s attempts at levity fell flat with the obvious discomfort he was in. “Perhaps, but it is unlikely. Neither of them were married or had obviously removed an engagement ring. The woman I was to see tonight was a redhead in a green princess cut Dior.” He shrugged on the shirt Gaby offered. “I came here, because I believe those men are now tossing my room, looking for my earlier winnings. Good thing our gear is up here with the Peril.” He grimaced and touched his throat, taking another sip from his glass. 

“I’ll order you some tea.” Illya straightened, and walked to the phone, his limp all but disappeared. Gaby watched him go and saw his back stiffen. Nothing appeared to be wrong with the Russian agent. He ordered curtly, and hung up, shedding his sleepwear with disdain, pulled a black turtleneck over his head, and stepped into his trousers. Gaby watched the muscles in his back ripple with the movement, his hands still shaking. “They are in your room then. I will go chat.”

“Peril, not that I don’t appreciate the gesture,” Solo stopped to choke, wincing painfully. Illya screwed his cap on his head, nearly pulling the hook out of the wall it was hanging on. “Since they were just doing their job, you are going to get booked for assault.”

“Only if they remember my face,” Illya said, irony in his tone. 

“If you could go to the casino, and do a bit of listening instead of homicide, we might be able to figure this out.” Gaby interjected. The unexpected nature of Solo’s injuries worried her, and she would not risk Illya’s life so casually for revenge. Nor would Solo appreciate such a gesture on his behalf. 

Solo’s eyes were watering, and he slammed down the rest of his drink, as he nodded in agreement. “Good thinking, Teller.” 

“We’ll try your way first. Still like my plan.” Illya stopped, and held his coat. “What are you thinking?” He had stopped tapping, and was now fiddling with his case of bugs and tracking devices. Gaby was pleased to see him redirected to focus now on the prospect of a mission. 

“If someone had targeting me for whatever imagined slight, they may be boasting about it now, and you could bond over your mutual disregard for my character,” Solo said softly, with a quirk to his mouth, “or if it was UNCLE they were targeting, they will head after you.”

“I am not so easy to catch.” Illya smiled.

“Just leave one alive this time to interrogate.” Solo quipped.

“Both of you are beat to hell already!” Gaby stomped her foot. “No fighting, no.” 

“Gaby, they did not set it up to kill me, just keep me from showing my face there again, unfortunately. I was having a lovely time. So obviously there is something that I shouldn’t see. And as you were lustrous last night, and unmistakably in my presence, you will have to sit tight with me.” Gaby felt everything lurching out of control with the two men. Solo had a point, but whoever they were up against had the resources to hurt them, and that would only be easier if they separated. 

“Illya, promise to be careful, and wear one of your transmitters?” Gaby turned, and Illya pulled her to him, and brushed his face through her hair. Even though Illya betrayed no weakness with how he moved, his body held an unreasonable tension. “You’re not wearing that,” Gaby mused, breaking away from him, and grabbed a dark grey suit. 

“It will be okay, Gaby. I promise.” Illya said. “And you, Cowboy, better get cleaned up, because we may need to leave quickly.” 

“I’ve never asked, why ‘Cowboy’?” Solo enquired as he handed Illya the gun from the bedside table. Gaby watched as Solo walked without a limp, but moved guardedly. 

“I had eyes on you that night in West Berlin apartment. That was a lovely apron.” Illya said mockingly. Gaby smirked as she faintly remembered the beige apron with horses and western art. Illya shrugged on the suit jacket, and thumbed through his few ties. 

“The blue one will do nicely.” Solo said, and Illya picked the brown.

MFU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebelliousrose – I am unable to express my level of gratitude for the beta read. 
> 
> Hope everyone enjoyed Part One of the casino trope.
> 
> If you have the time tell me what you’re thinking!!!
> 
> Once again, thank you for all the support for my previous stories. Everyone has been so kind and complimentary.


	2. Down Poison

Illya stepped onto the main floor of the casino, and tried to maintain a quiet disinterest as he strolled through the floor, catching the remnants of many conversations that would have interested the secret police if he were home behind the Curtain. Snippets of unfavorable political opinions, obvious exchanges of cash for illicit services, and the general abandon of proper decorum had Illya needing to shower immediately. The bright lights, loud music and discordant conversations were overwhelming; he suppressed everything, taking advantage of his height to scour through the crowd looking for his investigation’s starting place.

He walked slowly with small steps to keep his breathing easy and maintain control of his limp. The jolt days ago of his car striking the back of the vehicle he pursued, slamming his knees into the dash, and the resultant roll down a hill had only added insult to injury. The press of the crumpled car‘s steering wheel to his chest had left its own damage, and while the injured ribs had not been serious, he was doing his best to leave off any strenuous activity. The sleep he gotten that afternoon had been unusually restorative; he had drifted off listening to Gaby absently mouthing along as she read, and as much as he wished she would go and explore, it was comforting having her there in his room. He envied Solo her company of the night before and yearned for Gaby to be here with him instead. If Illya wasn’t so sure the American didn’t have intentions toward Gaby, he would have been suspicious. Solo dressed their tomboy mechanic well, and had paid for someone to do up her hair. She had been ravishing. Perhaps the he had done it to tempt Illya, like the ways Solo had pushed them together.

If many things had been different, Illya would have delighted in pulling that dress off, but the pain and exhaustion of his injuries had made his wits dull, and his company poor. Not only had his discomfort made him step back. His increasing fear of being recalled to the KGB was the chief determinant in his refusal to proceed in their relationship. He would not abandon Gaby, and mirror the way his own family had been pulled apart. Waverly would not split them up while their team functioned efficiently, or dissolve the group, but he could trust the KGB to recall him if they deemed it necessary. And if Illya was recalled, he feared to think about what questions they would ask, and what they would demand. Illya was no longer sure how he would be able to respond such questions or orders. With that uncertainty hanging, Illya could not involve himself deeply with Gaby. He had finally stopped picturing the prostitutes and patriots that had been pushed on him when he had been training in the KGB and stopped thinking of his mother, or whenever he was alone with Gaby. Those experiences meant nothing to him in the face of Gaby’s dark eyes, or her teasing grin, but he could tell she was frustrated, as she was nothing if not forward and outspoken. He feared making her feel rejected. This fear of attachment, and the consequences of intimate relations was something he could never discuss with the American agent who begrudgingly became his friend.

While Illya was aware of his own faults, his many characteristics that made him less than a man, he worked to better himself with no small influence from Solo and Gaby. Solo’s identity was wrapped up in his flaws and his took pride in practicing his dark gifts. Both he and Solo would not be counted amongst heroes except that they employed their skills in the service of good man. Waverly’s intent so far had been to seek and destroy new technologies that had the capability of causing mass casualties. Solo was a tool to that end, using his charisma to obfuscate UNCLE’s motives, larcenous hands employed to locate and remove items better left unused, his photographic mind able to piece together cases. The man with all those gifts had not originally chosen to use them for the service of the world. He had been caught and imprisoned. Solo had pride and enjoyed testing the boundaries of his leash, and indulged what freedom he could, gambling, womanizing, and drinking.

Illya could not reconcile the moment that he considered this man his friend; when the mutual respect for their differing skill sets had evolved into trust and companionship. The American embodied everything Illya despised- his self-centered attitude, his treatment of women, his arrogance, and his indulgence in his vices, but in this moment on the casino floor, Illya was moved to keep his own rage in check, focusing on his mission, his task of identifying who had hurt Solo, and making them pay for their actions. It was for the man who had returned a watch to prevent a gunfight, who had burned computer disk to prevent conflicted loyalties, the man who had forgiven his temper, the man that encouraged him to pursue happiness, and the man who unwaveringly stood at his side during combat.

The woman Solo had described would be the most likely linchpin to discover what had happened to Solo earlier. Her timing was suspicious, leaving right before Solo was to be beaten, and he had dropped his guard and allowed her to get close to him. While that did not immediately make her guilty, on Illya’s own turf, that would have been enough for him to have her picked up for a frank chat. Nothing so barbaric as he was sure Solo would picture. Torture only encouraged fabricated confessions, and admissions to false crimes created extra paperwork and unjust prosecutions. Instead, Illya implemented the dynamics of powerlessness. Having an uncooperative witness placed somewhere uncomfortable, left waiting restrained, thirsty, and listening to what sounded like forceful interrogation loosened tongues that were perhaps not those of the guilty party but aware of useful information. If that woman had been glued to Solo’s side, she would have seen something. Solo had been distracted by his game, his strategy. Backgammon was not dissimilar to chess, and Illya understood how wrapped up in tactics one could become, but the woman would not have had that distraction. She would have been bored, looking about, and most women could not help but to listen in on other conversations. If Illya was lucky, she would have genuinely cared about Solo, and motivated to share what she knew for the American’s sake alone.

Illya hummed low in displeasure, failing to spot the woman. A button in his collar sent audio back to where Solo and Gaby waited. In their spare time, he and Gaby should come up with a two way system. The ability to discreetly communicate with his teammates would have been invaluable a number of times. Illya felt a bit overwhelmed in his current role. Emulating charming conversation was not his strong suit, and his accent marked him as an unpopular nationality. He would never admit it, but having Solo feed him lines or even Gaby’s input would smooth over his ungraceful tongue.

Illya noticed men in industrially cut suits watching him, lingering at the casino floor’s edges, but rather less than he would have guessed. Two had recently changed their shirts, and three had fresh facial injuries. Illya smirked at the damages from Solo’s fight; ambushed unfairly and held at gunpoint, Solo gave more than they had repaid. The American agent always got the better end of the deal.

Illya slipped in at a blackjack table as a cover. As he predicted, with a bit of disdain for their profession, the casino thugs’ eyes fell away from Illya, uninterested in watching a playing patron. Blackjack was a game Illya could play without saying a word, and from this spot he could see most of the room. Only one other man sat at the table, with a well-endowed blonde cuddled in his lap. She wore an unflattering cheap gown, and was covered in costume jewelry to the point of tackiness. Illya sneered inwardly. No self-respecting man let his woman walk around like that. Neither of the couple appeared happy, only a small stack of chips remaining in front of the man, and the woman looked Illya up and down critically.

Illya anted up, and looked down at the cards, one ten showing, and a hidden nine. The dealer looked tired, and though he wore an artificially attentive expression, he rocked on his heels and shifted his weight frequently, rubbing wrists that were beginning to look arthritic. The man had obviously been here most of the night. He would likely not have heard about the back room events. The dealer’s eyes did not shine with unshared gossip. Illya waved his hand flat across the table, and wagged his eyebrows at the blonde. The deck was almost through, and fortunately he had no desire to lose his money. It would be easy enough to start counting once it was shuffled anew while he waited to see if the woman in green would show herself. Pretending to admire the cheaply dressed woman was in poor taste, but he might get the couple to say something useful

“You just got here, didn’t you?” The blonde asked, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.

“Of course he did, he just sat down. Hit me.” The man thumped his hand down on the table boorishly. “Might as well win something tonight.” With a queen showing, Illya doubted the wisdom of the move, and as he predicted the man’s face blanched, as he tossed over a seven to match the new card. The dealer busted from eighteen. Illya flipped his hole card, and gathered the hand’s winnings, leaving his ante. 

“Everyone else seems to have the luck tonight,” the loser groused. “Except that American chap didn’t get away with it. If he didn’t deserve the prize money, why didn’t they award it to me? I should have gotten it, if he cheated his way into first place.”

Illya hummed questioningly. So this was Solo’s final opponent. He looked as self-absorbed as Solo had intimated, but Illya was surprised to see the woman still on the man’s arm. Perhaps it was love, the love two shallow creatures could have for one another.

“I was in the final game of the backgammon tournament, and the man I played was a cheat. I should have suspected it myself, I never play so poorly.” The man said snidely.

“How could opponent’s cheating change your play?” Illya could not help but ask in indignation on Solo’s behalf. The man had clearly not been on the one to inform on Solo’s purported misconduct. His own interpretation of events was illogical. Illya found the whole idea of cheating at backgammon ridiculous, since predictably getting just one dice result would not be enough of an advantage for a weak player.

Everyone at the table looked at Illya again, and the Russian wished he had kept quiet. “The man was obviously a masterful liar.”

“Of course.” Illya smiled his best smile to soothe ruffled feathers. He watched the woman blush a bit. Illya may not have had the gift of gab, but he was aware of how to use his other talents.

“You know, I heard last month the winner of the poker tournament was also found to be cheating, and they held the final prize then, too.” The man grumbled.

The next hand dealt, clearing the shoe, and Illya was dismayed to see a seven, and an eight. His opponent had a nine. Illya tapped the table with his finger. A ten topped his cards, and he shook his head ruefully and stood. “Is not my game.” He turned over his cards.

In truth, Illya was aware of the poor odds the players in the game had against the house, and marveled at his luck in gaining at least that much information. He moved to bar for a drink to use as a prop, and glimpsed the flash of a green dress and red hair. He bought two drinks instead, pasting on his most engaging expression, and did his best to casually approach her. She could only be the one who had left Solo. She leaned against the pillar, and Illya saw one foot tap the ground, obviously upset. Illya moved out so he could approach within her line of sight. He had no desire to scare the woman. Yet.

“You look lonely,” Illya said with the most disarming look he could muster. He held out the drink, an old-fashioned, exactly what she had drunk with Solo. One painted eyebrow arched imperiously at him and she ignored the drink. No facial tics belied recognition, so unless she was very good, she did not know who he was.

“I’ve not had the best night,” she answered after a moment. “What do you want?”

Illya smiled genuinely. “I had wanted the pleasure of your company, but perhaps you need a friendly ear more?” Illya tilted his head to two stools at the bar. “You could drink and complain. And I will sit and say nothing.”

“Fine.” She grabbed the drink from him, and marched to sit at the bar. “An old-fashioned please, Bernard,” she called to the bartender.

“That’s the same as I bought you. Good guess?” Illya asked, and watch her drink.

“Hmm, a great choice,” she sighed. “I work here, you know, and despite how wonderful it is, the last thing I want to do on my days off is come back.” Illya sat on his stool and rocked it forward to sit closer to the bar, keeping the wince of pain from his face at the jarring movement. “So here I am, with the most entertaining man I’ve met in a while. And then I come back, from… from freshening up. And where’s he gone? Without a word to me. I’ve spent the last hour hunting for him. What a fool I am.”

“Perhaps another woman caught his eye.” Illya suggested heartlessly. If she had truly nothing to do with Solo’s attack, she would respond angrily; or hurt if she was an innocent tryst.

“He had eyes only for me. You must know what I mean,” she gestured up and down at herself. She was obviously accustomed to a soft lifestyle; too pretty, and had no character. Not his preference.

“Indeed.” He also noted that her reaction was cold, vain and truthful. It was not the reaction of a woman scorned.

“Perhaps something else distracted him. What were you up to tonight?” Illya wished he could have asked more subtly, but English was such a blunt language in his grasp.

“Myself, not much,” she looked away from him. It was a lie. “He was too busy at first winning the backgammon tournament to pay attention to me.”

“That is unfortunate,” Illya said, and stroked his hand along her jaw, biting down the bile that rose in his throat. Solo’s ability to consort with poisonous creatures was beyond Illya’s understanding.

“Why do even care?” She said, and pulled back from his caress, knocking back her drink. “Why would you want to hear about another man?”

“I like hearing you speak. French accents are very exotic, and you are a very beautiful woman.” Illya answered, hoping the appeal to her obvious vanity struck true. Solo would have said something shorter, and more profound, brevity being the soul of wit.

She moved to the glass Illya had bought for her, and the bartender bustled by, knocking it over with his elbow. She jumped like a wet cat, and nearly hissed. “Really, Bernard. This is a new dress.” Illya grabbed a stack of towels from behind the bar, and dabbed at the alcohol.

“Get us some club soda,” Illya ordered, as the bartender blushed. “The color of the dress is dark. If you are lucky it won’t stain.” Illya dabbed at her lap and she pushed his hands away from her.

“That’s fine, I’ll finish.” 

“What is your name?” Illya asked, as he dipped a fresh cloth in soda and handed it to her.

“Vianne,” she answered smoothly. If he knew nothing else about her, he would have no reason to doubt.

“What a lovely name. I have not heard it before.” And he hadn’t. It was not the name she’d given Solo. Illya took a sip of his own drink, disgusted with the flavor.

“It’s been lovely, but I fear that this is my call to retire for the night,” Vianne said and stood as she gestured downwards. The wet dress clung oddly to her leg, bunched around something strapped to her thigh. Illya jerked his eyes up as quickly as he could. She was already turning to leave.

“May I walk you home? I would not want you to run into trouble alone.” Illya said, and wondered how far he would be able to push her. That was no purse belted to her thigh. If he did not miss his guess, it was Solo’s gun. This woman was implicated, and he would take the opportunity. Solo have need to forgive Illya’s interruption of their affair.

Illya stood and the world shifted oddly. He blinked his eyes and carried on. It took a few long strides to catch up, ones that wrenched at his chest and his knees. “My, you are stubborn. I usually like that in a man.” Vianne pushed him back with a single hand, and to Illya’s chagrin he felt himself lean backwards. His hip contacted another table, and he grabbed at it as his feet came out from under him. He landed on his back on the marble floor. “I do believe this man has had too much to drink,” she laughed. “Boys, help him outside.”

Illya blinked furiously. His body was sluggish, and he felt unwell, but he did not close his eyes, and rolled onto his belly. Pain bolstered him as he pushed himself onto his bruised knees. He forced himself up and reached through the slit in her dress, and pulling the familiar gun. He pushed the safety off and ran a snug arm around her neck. “Back up slowly.” The words slurred more than he wished.

“You are going to be sorry you got up, comrade,” Vianne hissed, all hint of French accent gone. “I would have let you live. The KGB does not trouble us.”

Illya dug the gun into her side. “KGB does not tolerate women lying. What did you do to the American?”

“Nothing permanent, darling. Why do you care?” She answered as Illya backed them away. All the surrounding eyes were on them, and ominous men in black suits approached. Illya fired a shot through her hair to strike the wall harmlessly and she shrieked.

“American agent is my concern. Who do you work for?” Illya said, hating how slowly he was enunciating. The world was growing dim. He tried to head them toward the fire exit, but the woman moved very slowly. She put an elbow into his ribs, and Illya squeezed off another shot in reflex. As he bent into the blow, trying to direct its energy into his side instead of his core, he saw the bullet punch into the bartender. The man crashed to the floor. While the man had put something into his drink, it was a violent retribution. “Who do you work for?” The patrons on the casino floor were all running now, creating a barrier between them and the casino thugs.

“I’ll never tell you. They’d kill me.” She spat, and rammed back against him. Illya turned with her and shoved her to the floor. He kept spinning, and fell against the door, grabbing the handle with one hand and dropping the gun, to push the bolt back with his other. It was harder than it should have been to line up the slotted metal, and he fell through the door once it opened, landing heavily in the back alley. His vision went black as the air pushed out of his lungs. He lay there straining to get up as he saw Vianne rise and pick up the gun. It fired twice and he waited for the pain, as he rolled himself clumsily away. Illya closed his eyes.

Instead he heard the thump of two bodies, and the slam of the door. He opened his eyes to see the women eject the bullets from the magazine and throw them at his chest. She meant to frame him for murders he had not gotten to commit. “For luck, darling,” Vianne kissed the corner of his mouth as she bent and slipped off those expensive shoes, and sprinted away between the buildings.

His large hands fumbled with the gun and the bullets, he heard the small shells bounce away. Solo would be so disappointed, and now Gaby would never see him again. He would not last long in a Moroccan jail. French influence was still strong here, and they were no fans of Communists. Illya let his head drop. He rolled himself to his side, overbalanced, and ended up on his stomach, feeling the world blink in and out of focus. His forehead felt cool on the cobbles. 

A hand gripped his arm, and everything went black.

MFU

Solo heard the crash of tables and the dangerous change in tone of the woman he had been intimately interested in only hours before. There was some shuffling coming through the bug on Illya’s collar, and then the distinctive sound of a gun being readied to fire behind Solo. The Russian voice was not as crisp as it should have been, and the unmistakable sounds of grunting breaths filled the mike.

Another gun sound had Solo glancing at Gaby, looking about as pleased as a she-wolf. She placed her own gun in the pocket of the long white coat she wore, and put out a hand to Solo. “Are you coming with me?” She’d been ready to depart in an instant the moment Illya had left the room, not sitting to listen to Illya’s transmitter, and had paced, faster the moment he began speaking with Vianne. Solo watched her annoyance with some relief. These two spies of his made an interesting couple. He feared for the mission that called for either of them to be a honey trap, since neither coped particularly well with flirtations from the opposite sex.

Solo wondered if Gaby would be half as riled if he was the one in the casino. He shrugged on Illya’s brown leather jacket, and flipped up the collar. Pain bit at him, but more so the uncertainty of what he and Gaby would find. His own damage had been mostly cosmetic, and he’d been beaten up before. He’d watch his urine for blood, and ensure that his abdomen did not bruise too badly. Ideally he would avoid any future confrontations until he had healed, but as he followed Gaby down the stairs, noticing she could run well in shorter heels, this was simply not an option.

The last few words Solo had caught before the door slammed shut had him confused; the redhead, Vianne or Juliana, marked Illya as an agent, but did not seem aware of his connection to Solo. Illya had picked up on that as well, and implied he that he was there to take Solo out. He pounded after Gaby out the side door of the hotel, and across the street. She turned to run into the casino, hesitating at the flood of people leaving. Solo shook his head. Caught in a crush of panicky crowd was not somewhere he wanted to be. “This way. Illya was by the bar.” He led her around the corner, and saw the long figure lying in the alley. A flash of green disappeared around the far corner, and he saw Gaby pelt down the alley after Vianne. “Gaby!” Solo shouted, sprinting up the pavement and dropping to his knees to turn Illya on his side.

“Come on, Peril.” Solo pulled again, dodging a slow-moving fist. “No time for that.” Illya’s head lolled on his shoulders. “Gaby!” Solo snapped desperately and tried to sit the Russian up. In the dim light, a stain on Illya’s mouth caught Solo’s eye. He took a moment to wipe the crimson lipstick from his partner’s face, and wondered how the Russian had gotten further than he had. He got Illya’s arm around his shoulders, and tried to stand up slowly. Illya’s legs remained limp, and Solo was wracked with pain for his efforts. Sooner or later someone was going to burst through that door, or the police were going to come. He did not know if Waverly was going to disavow his agents if he had to choose between that and bailing them out of Moroccan jail, but the Englishman had a peculiar sense of humor. The sound of running made him look up sharply, and Gaby was there, coming up under Illya’s other arm.

“Couldn’t catch her. She got into a car. I heard sirens,” Gaby panted. “Let’s go.” Between the two of them, they manhandled Illya across the street, dodging into the side door of the hotel before the flashing lights came around the corner. Illya made a token effort to move his feet as they dragged him. It was late, and no bellhop stood at attention so they made it into to the elevators without being seen.

“Solo, do you think he’s hurt, shot?” Gaby asked, her face turning red as she struggled to hold up her part of Illya’s bulk.

“Have to check in the room, but it sounded like they drugged him.” Solo answered, his own voice strained. Sitting quietly listening to the audio, had done a bit to restore his raw throat and Illya’s ordered tea and aspirin had done wonders, but running around was quickly destroying its polished edge.

Getting out onto their floor was another dilemma, and less sneakily done. Other residents of the hotel looked at the three of them snootily, as they emerged from the elevator. Gaby was disheveled, Solo bruised, and Illya hanging like a deflated balloon between them. “Good party,” Solo commented wryly, as they navigated the door carefully. The bug on Illya’s collar buzzed with feedback, and Solo turned off the transmitter.

“This is bigger than I thought,” Solo said, as they draped Illya’s upper body on the bed. “She had us made. She knew to watch out for me at least, and called Illya as KGB.” Solo’s thoughts turned over the conversation he had heard. He would have Illya play back the recording later, where they could comb through it.

Gaby undid Illya’s suit jacket. “She did not connect us, though. Why? Did she just know you as CIA? I’m not sure she even mentioned that you were a spy.” Gaby smoothed her hands through Illya’s hair, and wiped the dirt from his face. Solo went to grab a washcloth and crumpled over. His gut clenched in pain. In a moment, small strong arms encircled him, and pushed him back to the davenport. “Solo, sit. Do you need a doctor?” His head swam a bit and he waited to answer until he was sure he could tell the truth. 

Gaby’s hand skimmed down his face as well. “Okay, let’s get your feet up.” He felt her grab his legs and plop them down on the coffee table. “Lie back a moment. Close your eyes.” Solo felt a measure of warmth and heard Gaby turn away. She came back with a warm towel, and draped it over his forehead.

“I think you almost fainted,” she said, and Solo heard the bedsprings bounce.

“That’s impossible. I don’t faint.” Solo answered, and felt the world rock around him. “If you call the doctor tonight, we’ll have the police knocking on our door come morning. Check Illya first. If he has any extra holes we may not have a choice.”

“He’s not bleeding and there’s no fresh bruising. His head’s not hurt.” He heard her sigh in relief, and smiled a small smile that still managed to ache. He felt her kneel in front of him. She untucked his shirt and pushed it up his chest.

“I’m really not up for that tonight…” He was cut off with a withering look.

“You are only brave enough to say this because Illya is drugged unconscious.” The heel of her hand pushed none ungently against his stomach as she palpated several spots. “How was that?”

“Better for you, I imagine.” Solo said, a grunt in his voice.

“I don’t think you’re bleeding badly, if at all.” Gaby answered with a roll of her eyes. She moved back to Illya. “There was no rigidity, just a little bruising. So what am I supposed to do with you both?” 

“As long as I don’t bleed to death, and Illya doesn’t choke on his own vomit, we’ll survive until the morning, and then we get on to the plane Waverly arranged, and have him send a doctor.”

“This was all for nothing. Whatever it is they were scared of, we did not find it, and I almost lost you both.” Solo turned and saw Gaby settled on the bed, Illya’s head in her lap. Solo wished he had a camera in reach, or that Illya was conscious enough to appreciate his circumstances.

“Something larger is going on, for sure. They are watching for us.” Solo answered. There was something he was missing from the night’s events. He was sure most of the clues were there waiting to be unraveled, but not now.

“That’s comforting,” Gaby said sarcastically, her fingertips combing Illya’s hair.

“I like having a puzzle to crack.” 

“I like being in one piece.” 

“It makes things more interesting. I do wish to see Miss Vianne again.” Solo said wistfully. Her smoky eyes held passion that could not have been faked. He wondered how the night might have gone if things were different.

“I think they hit you harder in the head than I first thought.” Gaby said. Solo closed his eyes.

A low moan rumbled and Solo heard the bedsprings creak. “What is this?” Illya was waking up. Hard to keep a man of that size down for long.

“Gaby’s in bed with you,” Solo answered, not chancing a look back at the couple. “Did you have a good time?”

“Cowboy. I am in no mood for games.” Illya said, and it sounded like he was speaking into the comforter.

“At the casino, Peril, did you have a fun at the casino? I doubt we will ever be allowed back.” Solo quipped mournfully, because up until the part where the casino heavies brought him to the back room, he was having a lovely vacation.

“Boys,” Gaby said, very quietly. “I’m very tired. And since neither of you are fit to keep watch tonight, I would very much appreciate it if we could get you settled, and then I could continue reading. That is after I wake up Waverly.” Gaby came off the bed then, and Solo heard her helping Illya to sit slowly and shuffle up the bed. It seemed to take an inordinately long time of pillow rearranging and hand holding. “Can you breathe?” she asked Illya crisply

“A little breathless.” Solo heard the sound of a light kiss. “Much better.”

“That’s no apology. I heard you flirt with that woman.” Gaby said, but lightly. Solo turned a bit to see. The Russian had a goofy, drugged grin on his face; as close to drunk as Solo had ever seen him.

“Woman was too easy to flirt with,” Illya answered. “Obvious why Solo went for her.”

“And what does that mean?” Gaby’s her easy manner quickly evaporating.

“Like my women strong, independent. You gave Solo a hard time, made fun of his important suit,” Illya answered, his eyes closed. “Good judge of character.” 

Solo restrained a chuckle as the mechanic pursed her lips, and stood from where she was perched at the side of the bed. Gaby appeared at his elbow. “Up you come.” She held out her hands.

“Where I am I going?” Solo asked. She nodded her head to the queen-sized bed behind them.

“Both of you need to rest, and I would like to sit comfortably for the night.” Gaby answered, and helped Solo stand. She walked him to the other side of the bed, and removed off Illya’s jacket, and borrowed overlarge shoes. “In you go.”

Solo lay down awkwardly. “This is not how I imagined spending my night.”

“At least you ended up in bed with someone,” Gaby said, a hint of jealousy in her tone. He’d have to contrive a good cover for them next time to make up for this. Something where they were married, and a small hotel that only had one bed per room, a bed and breakfast perhaps. It was his way of saying thank you.

“Solo, if you touch me in my sleep, I may mistake you as assassin, and kill you.” Illya said without a hint of teasing.

“Sweet dreams, Peril.” Solo curled up onto his side, bringing his knees up to his chest for comfort, and listened to Gaby make her way over to the radio, and give their handler the run down on the night. It was a long explanation and their East German teammate did not mince words, but she was fair.

“No, we did not get a name for the organization responsible. Yes we’ll keep looking, sir. Over and out.”

MFU

Solo’s eyes shot open as he leveled his gun at the person who stepped into the hotel room. The fast movement had him cringing, but his gun stayed level until he saw Gaby freeze, her arms bundled with what appeared to be his suitcase. The gun was ripped painfully from his fingers. Solo did not look at Illya, and instead carefully edged out of the bed.

“Good morning, Gaby.” Solo nodded. “May I help you?” Solo wondered how she had gotten it. He was surprised any of his things were even intact. The suitcase itself looked undamaged.  
Gaby set it down, and looked a little smug. “That’s alright, did you get enough beauty sleep.”

He heard Illya grunt softly as he pulled himself up to sit. “Not worth risk.”

Solo winced as he saw Gaby’s eyebrows arch. “No one was watching the room. I broke in, and collected what was left of Solo’s things. No one saw me.”

“Nice work, Agent Teller,” Solo agreed. She bobbed her head at him. Illya sighed, his face radiating thwarted disapproval. “I had some time to think last night. At the blackjack table, my last opponent mentioned to Illya another time where a grand prize winner was accused of cheating and no prizes were paid out. It is too coincidental the lovely casino hostess turned out to be an enemy agent.”

“Would have liked a chance to have a talk with her privately.” Illya said.

“As would I,” Solo continued. “Perhaps it was never about me.”

“Waverly should look into the casino’s financials,” Gaby surmised. “Perhaps they are funding illegal activities.”

“It would not be the first time. A lot of money flows through those doors.” Solo agreed.

“That hostess had no loyalty or interest in casino,” Illya countered. “I saw her shoot two guards with no hesitation to put blame on me. Not that I mind.”

“She may be employed higher up in the organization, to ensure dealings go smoothly. You Peril, are anything but smooth,” Solo said, “We’ll have to be more careful. If she is involved in something bigger, she has our faces, and can connect us.”

“Good thing we’re spies too,” Gaby said. She set down the suitcase on the davenport. Solo picked sadly through the contents of the suitcase, and selected a mismatched jacket and trousers, with a rueful shake of his head. He would need to replace his wardrobe back in New York, but as he looked to where Gaby sat at the head of the bed, Illya’s large hands gripping the base of her neck and pressing his thumbs up her spine, Solo felt relief that he did not need to train two new partners after this disastrous affair.

“At least some of us are,” Illya countered. “I was a perfect listener. Gaby was a great sneak thief. What do we even need the Cowboy for?”

Solo blinked. Gaby answered before he could defend himself, “Someone to get us into trouble.”

“I unraveled the financial underpinnings of a criminal enterprise. Does that grant me no credit?” Solo asked.

“Not after you were the victim of the honeypot,” Illya said. “That is basic spy craft. Negative points for this.”

“You were poisoned!”

“But I succeeded in exposing your seductress as enemy spy,” Illya pointed out. “Now we just need to identify her, and trace her back to an organization.”

“Gentlemen, we have a plane to catch, and I have not slept since yesterday morning.” Gaby stood at the foot of the bed, rubbing her brow. “I think we all agree you are both terrible spies.”

MFU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who liked/kudos this story, and those who took the time to leave me a comment!!
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of the conclusion, as I took the opportunity to introduce a future villain. 
> 
> The next story is proving a new challenge to write as it very emotional, so please bear with me. It will be up when it’s ready. 
> 
> EDIT: Just got the chance to upload the beta'd second chapter. Any remaining mistakes are my own. She should be thanked for her tireless efforts to rein in my typos, disregard of grammar and whimsical wordiness. 
> 
> Appendix  
> Odds Are - Barenaked Ladies  
> House of the Rising Sun - The Animals  
> Down Poison – 3 Doors Down

**Author's Note:**

> Rebelliousrose – I am unable to express my level of gratitude for the beta read. 
> 
> Hope everyone enjoyed Part One of the casino trope.
> 
> If you have the time tell me what you’re thinking!!!
> 
> Once again, thank you for all the support for my previous stories. Everyone has been so kind and complimentary.


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